


not a ribbon-and-pearl girl

by FreshBrains



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Clothing, Community: 100_women, Community: comment_fic, Cross-Posted on LiveJournal, Gen, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, agency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:16:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6688825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jessica has all sorts of little self-imposed rules when it comes to dressing in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not a ribbon-and-pearl girl

**Author's Note:**

> For the LJ comment_fic prompt [Jessica Jones (TV), Jessica, she’s never wearing a dress again](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/714581.html?thread=94420309#t94420309) and the LJ 100_women prompt #078: [Lemon](http://fresh-brainss.livejournal.com/6660.html).
> 
> Deals with the aftermath of Kilgrave's control, but is not explicit.

Jessica has all sorts of little self-imposed rules when it comes to dressing in the morning. No braids, no long necklaces. No yellow or pink ( _especially_ not yellow, lemon-yellow, just the thought of that sunshine-bright color made her want to hurl). No heels, no lace, no expensive lingerie. Nothing that costs more than fifty bucks.

And no dresses. Ever. She never really liked dresses in the first place, which, when Jessica thinks about it, makes Kilgrave even more of a grade-A fucking asshole.

Before him, she can’t even remember the last time she wore a dress. One of Trish’s premiers, maybe? No—she always suffered through the pins and needles of one of Trish’s designer friends who decked her out in tailored pants and a jacket that would cost her more than five months’ rent. Trish loved fashion, but she loved Jessica more, and if she ever presented Jessica a dress and asked her to put it on, they’d both collapse with laughter.

She tries to think about when she was little, if her mother ever put her in a dress, but she honestly can’t recall. Her memories of her mother are always a little rose-colored, though—she doesn’t want to think of her mom asking her to do something she didn’t want to do. _The Easter dress_ , she suddenly thinks, recalling Easter Sunday when she was seven years old, an itchy pale blue dress with a baby-pink collar. Buttons shaped like daisies. She hated it, of course, but it was a gift from some relative, some now-dead aunt, and Jessica had to wear for only a couple hours.

Halfway through the church service, she unbuttoned it and stripped down to her undies and Mary Janes, her little socks with the beads at the hem. Her parents just laughed; her dad took off his tie as a show of solidarity.

Jessica doesn’t want to think about this anymore, so she doesn’t.

She loves her blue jeans—her worn, baby-soft, _perfect_ blue jeans. They’re not name-brand. But she knows exactly where and when she got them—the department store three blocks down, sunny afternoon a year and a half ago, Trish in big sunglasses holding a Starbucks and rolling her eyes at the dated wash. She _remembers_ , it’s clear and perfect, and it’s hers.

Just like the jeans. Just like the boots. Just like her jacket, and her ratty tee shirts, and her granny underwear and two beige bras she wears on rotation. She still won’t wear dresses, she still won’t wear yellow.

But when she sees a pair of black motorcycle boots at Macy’s for half off, runs her fingers along the silver studs near the buckle, she snaps them up right away. They clock in at sixty bucks even, and she doesn’t feel bad for a second. They’re her rules, after all—she can break them if she damn well pleases.


End file.
